


Do Not Lay Heavy On My Heart

by hafital



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-07
Updated: 2007-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does it mean not to be alone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Lay Heavy On My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas, Killa and Unovis

On the day they buried Joe, the wind cut at his hands and face, slicing away any warmth he might have had. Methos looked from the gray soil up to the pale disk of a sun, listless and indifferent and drifting across the sky, no bigger than a coin in his pocket. The words of the minister could barely be heard over the trees thrashing above their heads; Methos shifted closer to MacLeod who paid him no attention, having eyes only for the ash-colored ground.

Everyone was there: Joe's sister and niece, Amy, several Watchers brave enough to appear despite the Immortals present -- Amanda and MacLeod. Methos was still Adam to the mortals, thank goodness, and bridged the gap between the two parties.

Even Amanda couldn't get MacLeod to do more than stand there, solid and immovable as a headstone. It was hard on all of them, but particularly on MacLeod, already heart-sore over Connor, still recovering from Richie -- it hadn't been but three months since New York, and the churning of the Game moved them ever forward, a strong, immovable wave rushing towards culmination, challenge after challenge with barely a respite between.

Methos caught Amanda's worried eyes, and shook his head silently. Not now, not yet, give him time -- wishing he could mean it more than he actually believed. MacLeod was strong, but even the strong become weary.

If fighting could have helped, MacLeod would have done everything in his power, and there was no shortage of fighting with a challenge always lurking around a bend or at the end of the day. But a strong arm and a good sword were a poor match for old age and a weakening heart. Methos understood MacLeod's silence. He felt it too, that deep weight of grief hanging from every part of him. 

The reverend finished and Amy was the first to drop a handful of dirt and a flower into the open mouth of the grave, Joe's sister behind her. One by one they went, until it was only Methos and Amanda and MacLeod left alone, standing wrapped in their dark, enshrouding coats.

"Duncan," said Amanda, taking his face between her hands. MacLeod turned then, pulling her into his arms, but Methos could see it was more for her comfort than for his. Methos looked away, unwilling to break into their intimacy, only turning back when he felt Amanda's touch.

"Take care of him," she said, her breath warm against his skin as Methos leaned in and kissed her cold, frost-dry cheek, beautiful despite the leeching of color from her face. She fled before Methos could respond.

Methos watched her go, briefly lost in memories of Amanda's eyes and her smile and the strength of her arms the one time she'd held him.

"I need to go." MacLeod's voice rang deep and rich and out of place in the spare, solemn landscape. Methos started at the sound.

"Oh. Where to?" he asked, his voice sounding as alien as MacLeod's, deceptively calm against the wailing wind.

MacLeod gave a negligent shake of his head. "Somewhere. Anywhere. I don't know if I can..." He didn't finish, turning instead to look at Methos with eyes that mirrored the depth of the open grave next to them. Methos felt MacLeod's gaze like a physical touch, always seeing past every shield he ever had. "I have to go," MacLeod said simply.

"Mac," he said, his voice cracking. He could hardly look after him if he left. But Methos understood running away -- sometimes it was the only thing left to do, the only thing of any use. Sometimes taking care meant letting go. He swallowed and the cold air pierced his lungs. He nodded, letting silence speak for him.

MacLeod touched his arm in farewell and Methos was momentarily blinded by a bit of sudden sunlight wringing water from his eyes. He heard MacLeod's steps retreat, and then looked up when he heard them come back again.

From cold, bright solitude to dark warmth in a flash of a moment, Methos lost his breath in MacLeod's arms wrapping around him.  
   
"Promise me, Methos. Promise me you'll stay safe." It was said fiercely into his ear. "What is it you always say? Live, grow stronger, fight another day. You do as you say, Methos. You stay safe."

Methos closed his eyes, taking hold of MacLeod's coat. "Only if you do the same."

MacLeod tightened his arms. "You'll know how to find me." Then he left again, vanishing behind the blinding wind.

Methos remained by the gravesite, wiping at his eyes and wishing desperately that Joe would come along and put an arm around his shoulders. He stood there a long time, letting the cold creep under his skin. When he could no longer distinguish one ache from another, he left.

The cold stayed with him the next day, and the day after that, and well into the week, and then through the end of the month, always with him. He thought he would be cold forever. It became familiar, almost a friend, as trusted as his sword.

He returned to Paris, remaining in his flat and remaining Adam Pierson. He went to Le Blues Bar, that also kept its name and kept its sound and its smells despite losing most of its soul. He returned to the Sorbonne and found a kind of comfort in teaching. He dated a graduate student named Sophie, with green eyes and a freckled nose, who always made him laugh and took delight in correcting his French.  He took long walks, sometimes along the quay, sometimes passing Notre Dame, sometimes pausing under bridges.

The days turned easily from one to the other. Sophie turned into Adrienne who turned into Marie who turned into someone else, coming and going like passing leaves, and he ignored the reputation he developed. He never forgot his promise even if the promise became a cold rock in his chest, but there were no challenges to be had anyway, the Game pulling back like the tide between moons. He didn't bother to question this and was just grateful for the calm.

He'd learned to love the cold. He never left Paris except for once a year, always in early spring, to visit the gravesite of an old friend. After the third visit, he returned to find a card delivered by post with only an address written in a familiar hand, the rest of the card left blank.

He set the card aside, using it as a bookmark for a while, and then it got lost among his papers, always turning up like the proverbial bad penny. Sometimes he stared at the picture on the front -- sunset on a beach and the silhouette of a man. Generic, unspecific, a typical tourist affair, but Methos could see the message in the empty spaces between the sun and beach and the lone figure, walking. He still set the card aside.

"Does nothing satisfy you?" asked a woman, Pauline, after a night of clear satisfaction.

"What do you mean?" He held himself still, lying on his back with a sheet covering his spent cock, reading a book of poetry with the card stuck behind a page while she watched.

She tilted her head and touched his face, making Methos look at her. "Do you think I wouldn't notice? Where do you go when you look out a window? When you stare at that book? When you make love? You're never here, Adam."

He closed the book and pulled her to him, but he knew it wouldn't be enough. He loved her, he loved them all in his way, but they were more perceptive than he was. Most left before he could hurt them.

"I'm leaving," he said into her warmth lying next to his chilled skin, the words spilling out before they formed in his mind.

She sat up, a brittle smile on her lips. "You were already gone, I think." Her smile broke into tears as she turned away, dressing in the yellow lamplight, brave in a way he could never be.

He watched her until she disappeared out the front door. He sat in the silence of his flat, naked and remarkably empty, irritably wondering how he got himself there in the first place. The card fell from its place in his book, glossy papered sunlight reflecting upwards.

He felt, finally, a cold hard shell crack and fall away, a protected grief, a harbored pain, and he struggled to breathe and to move, stumbling over his legs as he dressed and packed a hurried bag of clothes. He put the card in the pocket of his duffle bag.

He left. First to visit Joe's grave, and then, afterwards, to find a sunset and a sandy beach.

  
~~~

The wind blew lightly, stirring sand over the beach as the sun dipped behind the ocean, carrying away the day's warmth. MacLeod watched the daily disappearing act from his back porch, sipping a cup of coffee, admiring the little dramas of waves and foam and sand crabs crawling by. The late summer night spilled across the sky, leaving only a strip of color along the horizon, and then that too was gone.

He'd been living there for two years and had yet to tire of the view from his back porch. He'd driven all over the U.S., from state to state and town to town, up into Canada and then down the coast, never making it past Big Sur. Driving through when the sun was setting, he stopped to watch and then stayed to watch the next day, and then the next, until he found himself renting a small house overlooking a cliff and the ocean, with a sandy beach below that one could find if he picked his way carefully down the side -- far enough away from the resorts and the hotels, but still close to the few stores and gas stations that passed for towns in the area.

It felt right to stay; he'd suddenly become tired of running and the small town off the butt end of a state park was as good a place as any to wait. Wait for the next day, the next sunset, the next rotation of the earth. Since Joe's death he hadn't taken one head and he was in no hurry to have that change. He could feel the absence of the Game -- not really gone, just absent, with its stain still lingering all around him. He could wish for it to go away entirely, but he knew better.

He took a sip of his coffee, and paused, and turned his head. Seconds before the cold shiver of Immortal presence blew down his spine, he knew he had finally been found. He held his breath and then let it go when he heard the knock on his door. He grabbed his sword and opened the door to the familiar sight of Methos' bent head and dark coat.

"Methos," he said, completely startled, and at the same time not in the least surprised. It was just like Methos to appear unannounced, knocking casually as if he were expected. With a rush of emotion too fraught for definition, MacLeod couldn't hide his smile and he opened the door wider to let Methos in. "You came."

Methos gave a small smile, gone in a flash, stepping through the doorway, looking around. "I did," he said, hands buried in his pockets.

"It's good to see you," MacLeod said, wondering at the awkwardness. He didn't know if he should give Methos a hug or a beer. Seeing Methos again felt like a curious mix of nothing changing and nothing ever remaining the same. It was almost as if he had seen Methos just the other day.

Methos nodded, almost smiling, the long pause breaking when he walked through the small living room and out to the back porch.

"This is nice," said Methos, looking around.

"Yes."

MacLeod watched Methos closely, answering Methos' questions absently. On the outside, Methos looked just as he always did, but there was a change in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, in the way loneliness seemed to hang off him like small dangling weights. MacLeod had a sudden cold fear and he stilled with the thought.

"Coffee?" he asked, forcing the word through his throat, his mind going numb.

"Sure. Pretty view," said Methos, looking out the sliding glass windows that led out into the porch and to the beach beyond.

"Yes," was all MacLeod said, filling a mug with coffee and pushing it across the kitchen counter, whatever other words he might have said falling frozen to the floor.

"I can see why you picked the place." Methos walked back to the kitchen, picking up the mug.

"More like it picked me." MacLeod busied himself with rummaging through the fridge. "Hungry? I can have something ready in a few minutes. Sandwich? A salad? Soup?"

"I'm fine. Mac--"

MacLeod stopped. He turned around and walked to a small closet. "Oh. Okay. But you must be tired. I don't have a spare room, but I can make up the couch."

"Mac?"

"I guess that can wait." MacLeod turned back with false calm. He picked up his mug and made himself stand still, the kitchen island between him and Methos, ignoring the steady rise of panic he felt bubbling up from the floor.

"So, tell me what you've been up to," he asked, looking anywhere but at Methos.

A moment passed and then Methos answered. "Oh, the usual really. Nothing that exciting."

"I suppose that's good."

"I suppose."

The conversation sputtered to a halt. MacLeod inspected the tile in his kitchen, noticing for the first time that there were several mismatched pieces. The wind rattled the sliding doors and he could hear Methos breathing.

"Mac."

Something in Methos' voice made MacLeod look up, but he looked away again just as quickly. "Why are you here, Methos?" he asked, eyes down.

"I didn't realize I needed a reason."

The familiar tone of Methos' sarcasm made MacLeod lift his head. "You don't. I just..." He took a deep breath. "If you're here because you want me to-- I can't-- I--" His throat closed and he turned to the view of the ocean before continuing. "You can't ask me to do that."

Another stretch of silence before Methos let out a chopped sort of bewildered laugh. MacLeod looked at him sharply. The sound was so purely Methos, so like him that it filled MacLeod with a wild kind of hope.

"I'm sorry. You thought I-- that I wanted you to--" Methos laughed again.

Relief flooded MacLeod, willing to be thought a fool with delusions of morbid grandeur if it meant he was wrong. He didn't care if Methos laughed at him.  But Methos stopped laughing and MacLeod watching the humor die away from his face. No one knew him like Methos and he almost wished for his derision rather than the stark look of understanding that stared back at him.

Methos moved around the kitchen island. MacLeod tried to look away but he couldn't, his throat hurting and his eyes stinging.

"You thought I would do that. You think that's why I came?" Methos touched his sword arm.

MacLeod lowered his eyes at last, turning his face away. He shivered when he felt Methos touch the back of his neck, then take hold of his face, a hand on either side. "I would never. Do you understand? I would never."

Methos gripped harder and MacLeod looked into his eyes, nodding, finally believing.  He resisted for a moment, and then let himself be pulled into an embrace.

"Besides, you had your chance back in Paris."

It was entirely the wrong kind of humor, but MacLeod choked out a soggy sort of laugh despite himself, only then truly aware of the intense relief he felt. With his heart lighter than it had been in a long time, he gave Methos another squeeze before letting go, swiping at his eyes.

"You know, I am hungry," said Methos, perhaps louder and with more forced cheer than was needed in such a confined space.

Grateful, MacLeod nodded, turning to the fridge for the bit of refuge it could afford. "Go and freshen up. I'll have something ready in ten minutes."

"No rush," said Methos gently before turning away.

It was easier after that. With a steadying breath, MacLeod concentrated on fixing a quick dinner. Methos returned and the silence that followed was only slightly strained.

MacLeod gave Methos the grand tour, which he'd failed to do earlier. He showed him the back porch. With an ungainly spray of sand and rocks, they slid down the cliff to the small beach and the ocean glowing in the soft moonlight.

More able now to observe without jumping to dire conclusions, MacLeod watched Methos lift up his face to feel the spray of the ocean and the night fog drifting in. He could still see the edge of loneliness but it didn't seem so immovable anymore. He smiled when Methos turned to look at him.

"It's beautiful," said Methos as they walked a little up the coast, enjoying the cool night air.

They quickly fell into an easy sort of camaraderie, not quite like it had been in the years before, but almost. They still made each other laugh; they still drove each other crazy. MacLeod put Methos to work on an extension he was building to the porch and Methos made MacLeod listen to him complain about it. Methos sat and watched the sunset with MacLeod, each in his own silence.

On the third day they had an impromptu wake for Joe, drinking enough scotch to drown an army of elephants.

"A small army," said Methos, knocking over an empty bottle. Duncan thought this immeasurably funny and he choked as he swallowed. "What?" asked Methos.

"Don't tell that to the elephants," MacLeod answered, as if it made perfect sense, and he laughed all the more at Methos' bewildered expression.

"Okay, you're drunk."

"And you're not?" MacLeod felt the world tilt entirely too much to one side.

"At least I'm making sense," said Methos with a lopsided, indignant smile.

"Oh, you think so, do you."

Methos laughed, almost a giggle, and then he felt silent. "I visit his grave every year, you know."

MacLeod felt the air vibrate, watching Methos' eyes fall to a faraway distance. "He would have liked that," he said, quietly, feeling nothing remotely like the friend he'd always thought he was.

They helped each other up, knocking over an empty bottle or two, pushing furniture aside. The world had become a collection of bright accents and jagged, uneasy lines and MacLeod quickly lost what little hold he had over gravity. He felt like crying and laughing at the same time.

They stumbled into his bedroom, tripping over thin air. MacLeod struggled against his clothes, finally managing to tug them off before falling on the bed, oblivious of everything and anything, slipping into the complete darkness of sleep.

In a lingering alcohol-induced thickness he woke to find his cock hard and aching and a warm, totally naked Methos next to him with an equally hard cock rubbing against his hip.

He took a sharp breath and his head cleared. He grabbed Methos by the shoulders and pushed him back. "Methos." He tried not to sound shrill, unable to see Methos' face in the darkness or make out if he were awake or asleep. Methos' breathing changed and his muscles tensed underneath MacLeod's fingers.

MacLeod rose up onto an elbow, one of his hands still gripping Methos' bicep. He let go only to have Methos take his hand in his, slowly, entwining their fingers, bringing their hands together down and around his cock, cupping the heavy balls. MacLeod swallowed a groan and fell forward, fiercely claiming Methos' mouth.

He pulled on Methos' erection, his heart tripping when Methos gasped and pushed into his hand, groaning into his mouth.

MacLeod raised Methos' legs and barely prepared him before sinking his cock in deep with a grunt, his teeth scraping against the skin of Methos' neck. Methos turned his head and arched his back, hands indenting the flesh of MacLeod's backside.

MacLeod could only breathe harshly, thrusting into Methos, closing his eyes against the breathtaking wet, tight heat gripping his cock, so tight it pulled his foreskin back as he pushed in again and again. Methos set the tempo, demanding MacLeod go faster, his hips shoving, his mouth finding MacLeod, hungry.

MacLeod hiked Methos' legs up higher and he pounded in. He wanted more. He pulled out and pushed Methos onto his stomach, spreading him wide. He thrust back in, taking Methos' erection in one hand, holding him against his chest with the other. He stroked roughly, crying out when he felt Methos tighten around him. Hot spurts of semen spilled over his fingers. His orgasm overtook him, and he came in long, near painful waves.

He gulped in air. He could feel Methos' heart beating wildly beneath his hand. His cock slipped out and Methos stirred in his arms, but neither moved away, and before MacLeod could even remember how words or sentences were made, he fell into a dark, deep sleep, not waking until the gray light of morning began to fill all the spaces of the room. Waking to empty arms and an empty bed.

The sound of Methos in the shower and the smell of stale sex, the feel of sheets bunched around and pulled from the corners of the mattress, made him jump from the bed as if burned. He scraped a hand through his hair, tossed on some clothes – sweatpants, sweatshirt, running shoes -- and ran from the room.

There was a path that wound around the cliff side, up to another hill and through an untamed pocket of woods that opened up to another view of the ocean. He'd taken Methos there the previous day. Methos.

He felt exposed and open, as vulnerable and as naked as one could be. Somehow, it had been the last thing he'd ever expected of himself and Methos. He breathed through a jolt of memory, his knees weak; he still smelled of sex and Methos' sweat.

Every jar and impact shook his spine as he ran, the brisk air stripping the insides of his lungs. Pinpricks all over his body, his skin turned inside out, stomach twisted in knots, and all with the breathless memory of soul-shattering pleasure and hungry loneliness. God, he was so afraid.

He stopped at the summit of the hill, his heart pounding, breath labored, and felt his fear rushing at him, whipping around his head with the wind. The ocean sparkled as far as he could see under the clear morning light, a broad gray-blue jewel, changeable and shifting. Would Methos leave now? The thought made MacLeod close his eyes against the brilliance of the sky and the sea. MacLeod realized he had begun to believe he would no longer be alone.

His muscles started to cool down and he knew he should go back. He felt anxious at staying away too long and anxious at returning. A gust of wind shook the nearby trees and the sound felt almost like an Immortal buzz shivering down his spine. He paused and turned, uneasy, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, but the moment passed quickly and he felt nothing but the cool air and the growing warmth of the sun climbing over the sky.

~~~

Methos heard the front door close and knew MacLeod had left. He wiped away the fog from the mirror. He shaved, carefully. He dressed, concentrating on each movement and each simple decision. Shortsleeves or long? Jeans or trousers? Boots or trainers? When that was all settled, he started cleaning, putting things away, making order out of the remnants of chaos from the night before.

Without thinking, he changed the sheets on the bed. He started breakfast -- something simple and mindless. When it was all finished and there was nothing left to do and no MacLeod returning, he remembered everything. Every touch to his skin, every held breath, each kiss and stroke and blind gasp of pleasure. Memory met him every way he turned and he quickly moved to the porch, out into the morning light, all the way down to the beach and into the hands of the sea. He took a deep breath of air, staving off panic.

He never would have admitted it before last night, that everything he ever wanted could be found in one individual-- an Immortal. Not consciously, not verbally, not in any way that would hold a word or a thought as alarming as that. It made his hands shake and his chest hurt-- it could all go away so easily, it could all go so disastrously wrong. The two of them, two such difficult and different individuals, tied together with unseen strings, pulling and pulling, until they lined up, face to face, falling for each other in every way.

He'd always known he was drawn to MacLeod, but he had never known, or perhaps could never admit, just how much. Seagulls dipped and swayed over the ocean, squawking in easygoing indifference, fighting over a bit of crab or fish. He felt his heart soar with the seagulls, smiling at their antics, feeling an exhilarating fear that warmed his skin and calmed the thrashing ocean inside him.

A gust of wind pushed his back, making him look up and down the coast, feeling as if he were suddenly not alone. He turned to look up at the house and thought he saw MacLeod standing on the porch, watching him. He felt nervous, wondering what MacLeod was thinking and doing. Was he nervous? Did he want this as much as Methos did?

Feeling the almost unavoidable lure of MacLeod's presence, Methos walked back, not having any answers except for those he'd found mixed in with the ocean breeze.

~~~

The house was empty when MacLeod returned, but breakfast was left warming in the kitchen and the bed sheets had been stripped and changed. All traces of the previous night were gone -- the empty bottles, the disturbed furniture -- and the house felt emptier for it. MacLeod turned to the sliding doors and spied a lone figure wandering along the coast.

He almost went to Methos, to meet him near sky and surf, but instead he went for a shower, welcoming the warm cocoon of water. He dropped the soap when the cascading feeling of Immortal presence shimmied down his back. When he stepped out, he could hear the sounds of dishes being washed, of pots and pans banging around the stove. Music played softly in the background.

MacLeod took many steadying breaths, dressing quickly, seeking a calm he did not feel. Methos looked up when he entered and they both stood awkwardly, neither speaking. MacLeod dropped his eyes, and then it was all he could do not to look at Methos. He could feel Methos' eyes brushing against his skin. Any determination on MacLeod's part to appear unaffected vanished under the uncertain yet closed expression on Methos' face.

"Hi." MacLeod fidgeted. He looked blankly at the place setting laid out for him on the bar, picking up a fork and adjusting the napkin.

"How was your run?" asked Methos, quietly. "Are you hungry? I have breakfast ready."

"Yeah, sure. It was fine."

Another silence followed. MacLeod sat on the tall stool and took up his mug, already filled with coffee, concentrating on the hot liquid scorching down his throat, the dark, familiar smell calming him. Methos approached with a plate of eggs and bacon, toast with the crusts cut off, placing it in front of MacLeod from the other side of the kitchen island, always something falling between them.

MacLeod stared at his food, pushing at it with his fork. Methos walked away, toward the sliding doors and the view of the ocean, glinting and winking with its usual insouciance. MacLeod stared at Methos' strong back, clad in a light gray T-shirt, silhouetted against the window. He stared until Methos turned around but he couldn't see his eyes, the sky too bright behind him, casting his face in shadows.

"Methos," he said, and before he could reasonably think, Methos stood before him, his eyes sad and searching. He held his breath, waiting for Methos to speak, but he didn't say anything, just leaned in, resting his head on MacLeod's shoulder.

He smelled of the sea, fresh and cool. MacLeod closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, hands falling naturally to Methos' hips, soft cotton beneath his fingertips, drifting up to his back, to his shoulders, one hand resting on the back of Methos' head, cradling him close. He explored, finding a few tears and a few smiles, letting Methos touch him in turn. Lips followed, and MacLeod gave himself over completely, not thinking but just reacting to the song of tongue and teeth and small nibbling kisses chased with hungry need, again and again, until he felt dizzy and glorious.

"Mac." A ragged breath; Methos gazed at him, dark and meaningful. "Duncan."

MacLeod answered him by lifting Methos' shirt off and kissing his neck. Fingers tightened around his forearms, pulling him closer, pulling him away. They backed into the bedroom, Methos removing MacLeod's shirt; MacLeod unbuttoned and unzipped Methos' jeans, not slowing down until there was only skin on skin, and deep, mutable kisses.

His hands learned the stories written on Methos' skin. He learned the taste of him, sea salt and honey; the smell of him, bright and sharp; the feel of him, both smooth and hard. MacLeod submitted and let Methos take him into his mouth, sucking him deep into his throat, wet and warm, feeling Methos' tongue, rough on his ball sac.

MacLeod groaned and flipped them over. He pulled Methos' legs up, leaning in to watch Methos eyes saying, "Yes, do it." Methos groaned and thrust upward and MacLeod pushed in, slowly, memories clashing with the present, melding together. The previous night, he hadn't noticed how Methos caught his breath each time MacLeod pushed in all the way, or how Methos' fingers bruised him, or the way Methos bit MacLeod's shoulder and his neck, making MacLeod buck and pound into him, only letting go when he felt Methos come, shuddering in his arms.

They dozed, MacLeod waking to Methos sleeping, nose to nose, cock to cock. Sweat tickled down his side, his stomach growled. They both could use another shower, and MacLeod could not remember a more perfect moment. The sun went behind a cloud and the room dipped into gray, and even though it felt warm, MacLeod shivered.

Methos stretched into waking, smiling shyly. "Hello."

MacLeod grinned, and they slid into a kind of awkward newness, full of tender smiles and stolen kisses. They took another shower, together, MacLeod bending Methos over and taking him hard, braced against the tile, thrusting in and out while blinded with water. They ate in bed, MacLeod pushing the tray to the side when he knelt in front of Methos and licked his cock up and down with lazy hunger, swallowing and sucking, learning how to open his throat the way Methos had, his own dick hard in his hand.

They talked quietly, letting the day slip away. "What was it like, all these years? Where did you go?" asked Methos, on his side, his head propped on his arm.

"Nowhere, everywhere. I just drove around mostly, starting out in Chicago, letting the wind take me. It was fine." MacLeod shrugged. It had been fine, although loneliness always wore him down. In some ways, he had needed that, at least for a while. "I didn't go to Seacouver," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Methos' eyes shifted color, reading him like a book. "Oh? Not even the island?"

MacLeod shook his head, skimming past the memories of his old home. "You? I know you stayed in Paris."

Methos took in a long breath, eyes drifting off elsewhere. "I did. I wanted to be somewhere you could find me."

MacLeod felt his eyes sting and his heart contract, crawling up into this throat. "Methos."

"I know. Not really the smartest thing to do. But strangely enough, it was a very quiet time."

MacLeod swallowed and reached for Methos' hand, turning it over, letting all of the million things he wanted to say go. Methos smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting, his eyes laughing. MacLeod felt very young. He cleared his throat and asked a question he'd wanted to ask all day. "How often have you had, um..."

The laughter in Methos' eyes deepened. "Male lovers?"

MacLeod's cheeks grew warm, but embarrassment was an emotion he could deal with. "Yes."

Smirking, Methos lifted up onto his elbow. "Not often, but it happens. I'd say one or two every hundred years or so. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. And you?"

MacLeod, feeling foolish, shook his head, not sure why he asked or needed to know. "Once, a very long time ago," he said, remembering a slim-limbed young man with kind, patient eyes, a gentle voice not young at all, and the rough scratching of a monk's robe.

He returned from his memories to find Methos watching him, the humor in his eyes replaced with understanding and something else, something like an ocean wave, green and crashing. MacLeod held his breath and Methos leaned in to capture his lips, insistent, a nibbling kiss, pushing MacLeod onto his back. More and more, knowing him, the inside of his skin, the curve of his heart.

He looked up at Methos and felt overwhelmed when Methos moved between his legs. Tight with excitement and anticipation, his heart pounding, his eyes captured and held by the intensity in Methos'.

"Duncan MacLeod, tell me," said Methos, towering over him, but his fingers were gentle as they pushed in, making MacLeod's eyes go wide and his mouth fall open. "Tell me how I never saw you coming. I think I might have been waiting for you for a long time."

MacLeod stared at Methos, at the wonder on his face, trying to piece together the meaning of Methos' words, letting his legs fall even wider when Methos pushed in a second finger and he felt Methos brush against his prostate for the first time. He reared up, desperate for Methos' mouth, saying everything he wanted to say with his lips and his tongue. He knew what Methos meant – it all felt so new, so abrupt, like waking from a long slumber.

He didn't relinquish the pleasure of Methos' mouth on his, but let Methos lift his legs over his thighs, skin sliding against skin. He moaned into Methos' mouth when he felt Methos' cock push in.

Impossibly open, he could feel Methos inside him, sparks of pleasure with each brush against his prostate. He opened his mouth to speak, to swear, to cry out with pleasure and pain, but Methos thrust his tongue in instead, demanding absolute submission, and MacLeod could not say no, grasping and letting Methos ride him until MacLeod came, blindingly, his orgasm pulled from some deep place he'd never known existed. Methos followed a moment behind, collapsing on top in a heap and it was all they could do to kiss and soothe each other, whispering incoherently before sleep had the last say.

It was perhaps the quiet that happens just before lightning that woke him suddenly in the middle of the night. He became aware that he was alone just as the first blue-white arc of light cut across the dark outside his window, a second flash of light following. Before the third or fourth bolt of lightning could strike, he had his clothes on, reaching for his sword, fear making him stumble. He crashed out of his room and onto the back porch in time to see a lone man -- his arms outstretched, outlined in light -- fall crumbling to his knees, his identity obscured.

MacLeod skidded all the way down the cliff, rocks flying everywhere, emerging onto the beach breathless, the last of the lightning disappearing in a flash. He called out, "Methos."

The figure lifted his head and revealed his profile and it was all MacLeod could do not to bend over and become sick with relief. He managed the short distance, ignoring the headless body half covered by surf, and dropped to his knees, taking Methos into his arms, breathing him in, feeling his heart beating next to his own, hands compulsively touching Methos' gloriously whole neck, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop one ragged sob from escaping.

"I'm sorry," said Methos, gripping MacLeod almost as hard. "I only came out for some air--"

"No, it's okay--"

"He appeared out of nowhere. He must have been waiting."

"I thought I felt something today, when I was out running. It must have been him."

"I felt something, too, just barely. Mac--" Methos pulled back and took MacLeod's face in his hands. "He said a lot of things before we fought. He said he lived only a few hours away, that all of a sudden, a couple of days ago he felt a pull to come here, and imagine his surprise at finding not one but two Immortals. Powerful ones, too. A _pull_ , Mac. An imperative. Had you ever seen him before? Was he someone you knew?"

MacLeod was slow to comprehend Methos' words, the adrenaline still rushing through his system. He blinked and turned to look at the sightless eyes of the bodiless head, fixed in an upturned expression -- _take me, oh Lord_. He shook his head.

The night breeze carried sea salt and honeysuckle, and the cold, damp sand shifted beneath him. "It's us, isn't it? You and me, together?"

Methos didn't answer, but his eyes said everything.

~~~

Methos ignored the painful stabbing of a headache as he stuffed what clothing he had into his duffle bag. He had no choice; he had to leave. They had talked all night, going over everything-- the fight, what the dead Immortal had said, what it could mean, where it left them. Was it the fact of them being together, in close proximity, that was the draw? Was the Gathering triggered by convergence or by power? Always the sinking, desperate truth waited at the end of every sentence. It felt the height of selfishness for them to stay together -- it could mean the end. If they parted, then maybe the Gathering would still be some distant point in the future, could give them decades more, centuries of solitude and uncertainty broken by brief, beautiful encounters. However they looked at it, the result stayed the same. Methos couldn't be responsible for bringing the end. The thought terrified him.

MacLeod was silent, standing by the sliding doors looking out to the ocean, leaning on the wall with one hand. Morning had broken brilliantly over Big Sur, unaware of any turmoil or despair caused by the night, the only sign being messy footprints on the beach. MacLeod hadn't spoken a word since Methos said he was leaving, merely nodding once, eyes shuttered.

He cleared his throat. "Mac." Finished packing, he had nothing left to delay with.

MacLeod turned and approached, eyes darker than Methos had ever seen them. MacLeod took the duffle and led the way to the front door and out to Methos' rented SUV. Methos followed and it felt like he was walking through molasses, like he could barely move his legs, memories grabbing hold of him, grasping as he went by. He had come to love this little house on the edge of the cliff, on the doorstep of the sea. Looking one last time around, he closed the door behind him.

The air outside was cool with a hint of the afternoon heat around its edges. Methos took the duffle from MacLeod and threw it into the back of the car. He stood awkwardly before the driver's side door, suddenly reaching out to MacLeod, taking his hand.

"I'll call," he said, his voice sounding weak and distant.

MacLeod only nodded again, and Methos made the mistake of looking into MacLeod's face and he felt his carefully maintained determination crack. He hugged MacLeod, inhaling his scent before turning and reaching for the door. He had to leave. He must leave.

There was a moment where he got into the car and started the engine and drove away, down the winding road, looking in the rear-view mirror at the receding figure standing in the middle of the street, with him unable to breathe but not turning back. The moment lasted a heartbeat, or perhaps a lifetime, but before Methos could pass into that moment MacLeod grabbed him by his jacket and slammed him against the car.

"Duncan," he said, hands coming up to MacLeod's face, taking in the stormy eyes and expression before being kissed, an open-mouthed assault. He clung to MacLeod and MacLeod pushed him against the car again, hands pinning him. He remembered another day, long ago, with his back pushed against his car-- only it had been sunset then and not morning.

"Don't go." MacLeod's rough voice scraped against his skin.

"Mac--"

"No. Just listen. We can't predict what will happen. We don't know if we're right about this, about you and me triggering the Gathering. And even if we are right, you going away is only a temporary solution. It'll happen anyway."

Methos breathed in, unable to move, unwilling to do anything but look at MacLeod. But it was all madness. He slumped against the car and MacLeod relaxed his hold. Methos dropped his head against MacLeod's chest. "You'd be willing to be the cause? To be the ones that brought on the fucking Gathering?" He lifted his head and looked at MacLeod, making sure he was listening. "The whole time we were apart, all five years, I didn't have one challenge. What few Immortals I met were easy to avoid, didn't cause any trouble. You say it was the same for you. I'm not here _four days_ , MacLeod, and there's already one quickening, one head lopped off. It only took four days."

He watched MacLeod struggle, watched the frustration and anger play across his face, looking every inch the impassioned Highlander warrior, and for the first time Methos realized just how much he loved him. "You think it wouldn't catch up with us eventually? The Gathering will happen regardless. You and me parting might slow it down, but just because we haven't been taking heads these past five years, doesn't mean anybody else is taking a break. Immortals are out there every day taking heads. You know that, Methos." He paused, and his voice caught. "I don't think I could bear to hear about you losing your head second-hand, to be far away when--"

Methos felt the moisture in his eyes, the pain in his throat, watching MacLeod struggle back from the brink of tears. "Would it be any easier if you were close by?" he asked, quietly.

MacLeod shook his head, overcome; he lowered his head to Methos' shoulder and they both stood leaning against Methos' car.

Methos let his hands drift over the back of MacLeod's head, fingers toying with his hair. He wasn't sure he had the strength to leave anymore. He wasn't sure he cared whether the Gathering happened or not -- some distant horror, some unknown event. All he cared for was the strength of the man in his arms, the smell of his skin and the beauty of his face, his honor and his righteousness, his laughter and his pain. And God help him, how would he ever live knowing that one day Duncan MacLeod might not walk the earth. "There can be only one, Duncan. That doesn't change. It has never changed." Methos said the words, knowing them to be unalterably true.

MacLeod lifted his head and wiped at his eyes, angry, his voice rising. "I know that, but this thing, this Game, this need to fight and challenge, isn't a sickness or some kind of involuntary madness. It's a choice. Every challenge I ever made was my choice. Even with the dark quickening, I did it because I wanted to. It may be in our nature, to fight to the end, and I'm not sure that can be stopped -- I'm not sure I even want to try and stop it -- but I will not let it control me. You said you would never ask me to take your head and me taking your head is the only thing that would make me ask you to take mine."

Methos watched, close to true awe as MacLeod argued, following the thread of his words. "You think you can beat the Game." It was more of a statement than a question. It was preposterous, but Methos couldn't ignore a blooming warm and sharp in the middle of his chest, even if he knew it was ridiculous.

"Well, it is a game," said MacLeod, brashly, but he shook his head. "I wouldn't dare to hope for that. But don't ask me to let you go." MacLeod's voice caught again, sounding strangled and thin. "I don't think I can do this. I don't think I can stand here and watch you drive away. Not now, maybe not ever. I know it's madness, I know it, but don't ask me to do that, please."

They were both crying now. Methos nodded. He knew he was staying, that he couldn't leave, could never leave MacLeod, and to hell with the Game and the Gathering, and anything else that intruded. He'd face the apocalypse calmly if it meant this man would never be far from his arms.

"You win," he said, immediately feeling a thousand tons disappearing from his shoulders, his limbs free from the grasping molasses. He would have lifted off the ground if MacLeod hadn't crushed him in his arms and stolen all his breath with a soul-stirring kiss. Unending, that's how he felt, breathless when he looked into MacLeod's brilliant smile, completely taken, forever.

They decided they should continue with one part of the earlier plan and leave, together, taking with them only those things MacLeod could not part with. When they were ready to go Methos stood next to MacLeod and watched the last sunset drip color across the sky.

"You'll miss this place."

MacLeod shrugged. "I was only here waiting for you."

Methos smiled, almost embarrassed at the happiness he felt. "Come on, we'd better go."

MacLeod locked the door of the house and Methos started the car. Down the winding road they drove, hearts light, and if they were not quite cheerful, certainly they were full of emotion and a brazen kind of hopefulness. They looked straight ahead, neither looking in the rear-view mirror to the past, or out the window to the present. Only looking at each other when they sensed the buzz of another Immortal crawling up their spines, licking at the back of their necks as they drove away.

~~~

the end.


End file.
